Mirror Mirror
by Professor Squirrel
Summary: Caesar Flickerman is very confident in front of an audience. Standing alone in his bathroom in front of the mirror is a different story, though.


**Author's note:**

**I think that Stanley Tucci is a beautiful man. I wasn't trying to pick out anything wrong with him, just things that people often look down on themselves for.  
**

**So, here's to all of us who have ever went through eating disorders, depression, and self-confidence issues.  
**

* * *

I love my shower. The rainfall setting is my favorite. I stand there for a few extra minutes, letting the hot water soothe my muscles, letting the make-up from today's show run down the drain. I shut the water off, and step out of the warm shower, and into the cold room. I hate this next part. I face the body mirror that's hanging straight across from the shower. My eyes immediately start scrutinizing ever part of my body.

Why am I so pale? You can see the veins on the underside of my wrists. My father was a nice, tan color. Not even my tanning bed can change the color of my skin by at least half a shade. I always have to use a spray.

I wish that there was a surgery to make you look taller. I don't believe that, "I'm not short, I'm fun sized!" thing that I tell others. That's just said so that they won't give me any pity. But how great would it be to just be a few inches taller? Maybe I wouldn't feel like a runt when I stand next to the older tributes.

Ugh, Crow's Feet. Nasty little buggers. That's what I get for smiling so much, though. But being a talk show host, I can't really help it. They aren't one of my worst features, any ways.

As much as I loved talking to Peeta, I couldn't help but feel jealous of him. He was so muscular. Probably from throwing huge bags of flour around his parent's bakery. I bet that I would be lucky to lift the five pound potted plant that was standing next to me.

Where did all of this fat come from? I guess the audience was just trying to be nice when they told me that the Lamb Stew didn't show on me. It does, along with everything else that I eat or drink. I can pinch the fat on my stomach. I turn to the side. If I were a woman, people would be guessing that I was pregnant. I used to be able to clearly see my hipbone. That was slowly disappearing, though. My face is getting chubby, too. My cheeks are chubby, just like they were when I was a baby. Why? I eat healthily, don't I? Is it genetics? Was I born wrong? Others lose weight with ease. Tomorrow, I'll cut back on my food, and up the amount of vomit pills that I take. Maybe if that doesn't work soon enough, I'll look into Gastric-bypass surgery.

Almost everything with my body is wrong. My knees, my skin, almost everything. Even my pores were too big. The only thing that I liked was my hair. My natural hair color was black. It was a nice shade, but not for my skin tone. It made me look even more pale than I already was. So, when I took over as Hunger Games presenter, I started dying it a new color every year. The fans loved it, and I didn't look like a vampire. It was a win-win situation.

The media has done nothing to help with my self-consciousness. The notice everything. Once, I was involved in a scandal where a woman was claiming that I fathered her twin boys. That was easy to take care. A simple paternity test, and me joking about it on my show. No big deal. But a picture of me at a pool was posted, and I was so mortified that I thought about not going to work until I could lose a few pounds. There was my middle, for the world to see. No muscle definition, just fat. What possessed me to swim without a shirt, anyways?

I get fanmail all the time, mostly from women. They tell me anything from, "I love your show," to, "I want to carry your children." Although flattered, I think they're insane. Why the hell would you want my DNA in your gene pool?

I slip on my pale blue pajamas, and go to bed, just as a small tear rolls down my cheek. I get under the covers, and the Avox girls runs to fetch me the water that I always like at my bedside. As she's out, I pick up my telephone, and dial a number, hoping that the place is still open at this time of night. Sure enough, a woman answers. We discuss what I call my much needed surgeries, and dietary changes.

A few weeks after the games, I'm back up on stage, with a smile pasted on my face. I've went under the knife again, but the surgeons are so good at what they do that nobody can tell. I'm starving, but I'm three pounds lighter. I'm happy, and will be happy...

...until the next time that depression kicks in.


End file.
